mother used to say. Lots of the guys are incredibly hardworking and sweet, but others can be falling-down drunk or homophobic or both. I don’t speak a bit of Spanish, but the word maricón has a way of leaping out at you, believe me. I’ve heard it so often on the job, you’d think it was a species of plant. Who the hell needs that?
Jake reached into his jeans and handed me a crumpled card with his cell-phone number. The card was khaki-colored and JAKE GREENLEAF was written in dark-green letters intertwined with ivy. Below, in smaller letters, it said: New Man.
I thought that was cool and told him so.
By mutual choice, Jake and I never played again, but several weeks later I asked him to help me with a job near Buena Vista Park. He was all I’d hoped he’d be: dependable, cheerful, and not too chatty on the job. Best of all, he seemed to enjoy tackling the tougher stuff—digging out roots, say, or hauling flagstones, or working in the rain. Heavy labor was apparently a kind of fulfillment to Jake, a necessary stop on his path to completion—if not completion itself. I could hand him the nastiest job in the world and feel almost noble about it. Ours was a match made in gardening heaven.
One day at lunch, when we were both eating yogurt in a client’s backyard, I noticed how the hair on my arms had grown and realized in a moment of shivery solidarity that Jake and I were probably both shooting testosterone. We’d never really talked about his pharmaceutical requirements, but this seemed like a logical opening, so I showed him my lushly foliated forearms and told him what had caused them.
“Yeah,” he said, smiling. “It’ll do that.”
“It’s amazing stuff,” I said. “It really boosted my spirits… and my energy.”
He nodded. “Same here.”
“I worry sometimes about prostate cancer, but…” I didn’t pursue this thought since it wasn’t an issue for him, I presumed, and I was wary of destroying our cozy commonality. “Everything’s got its risks, I guess.”
Another nod. “That’s why I’m against surgery.”
I thought he meant surgery in general, which puzzled me.
“You know,” he said. “The operation. The addadictomy.”
“Oh,” I said. “Is that what it’s called?”
He grinned. “That’s what I call it, anyway.”
It took me a few more seconds to get it. “Oh, fuck,” I said, laughing. “Addadictomy.”
Jake looked pleased with himself. “A little tranny humor,” he said.
I’d never heard him use that term to describe himself, so I was emboldened to press further. “Have you always felt like a gay man?”
He thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I’ve always felt male. And I’ve always wanted to be with men.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?” I asked.
Jake lobbed his yogurt can into a trash barrel like a kid shooting hoops. “I don’t feel very gay most of the time.”
It wasn’t hard to grasp the alienation of a guy who wants to chase dick without having one himself. Jake had spent most of his life feeling betrayed by his anatomy, but even now that he’d relocated to Queersville he was still too queer for the queers. He just needs a nice girl, I thought, reminding myself of my mother when she learned I was gay. But it was true. Men are hung up on visuals, as Shawna had recently observed, but women give weight to the heart and the mind when measuring attraction. If Jake identified as a butch lesbian—or even as a straight man—some woman would find reason to love him.
“There’s someone I want you to meet,” I told him.
Three weeks later, when Anna was recuperating from her stroke, that meeting finally occurred. I took Jake by St. Sebastian’s Hospital one day after work and introduced him to my former landlady. She was thrilled to have company beyond her regulars, and I could tell that she saw in Jake a potential protégé. Jake, in turn, found a sort of spiritual grandmother, someone who understood him without effort or
Jake reached into his jeans and handed me a crumpled card with his cell-phone number. The card was khaki-colored and JAKE GREENLEAF was written in dark-green letters intertwined with ivy. Below, in smaller letters, it said: New Man.
I thought that was cool and told him so.
By mutual choice, Jake and I never played again, but several weeks later I asked him to help me with a job near Buena Vista Park. He was all I’d hoped he’d be: dependable, cheerful, and not too chatty on the job. Best of all, he seemed to enjoy tackling the tougher stuff—digging out roots, say, or hauling flagstones, or working in the rain. Heavy labor was apparently a kind of fulfillment to Jake, a necessary stop on his path to completion—if not completion itself. I could hand him the nastiest job in the world and feel almost noble about it. Ours was a match made in gardening heaven.
One day at lunch, when we were both eating yogurt in a client’s backyard, I noticed how the hair on my arms had grown and realized in a moment of shivery solidarity that Jake and I were probably both shooting testosterone. We’d never really talked about his pharmaceutical requirements, but this seemed like a logical opening, so I showed him my lushly foliated forearms and told him what had caused them.
“Yeah,” he said, smiling. “It’ll do that.”
“It’s amazing stuff,” I said. “It really boosted my spirits… and my energy.”
He nodded. “Same here.”
“I worry sometimes about prostate cancer, but…” I didn’t pursue this thought since it wasn’t an issue for him, I presumed, and I was wary of destroying our cozy commonality. “Everything’s got its risks, I guess.”
Another nod. “That’s why I’m against surgery.”
I thought he meant surgery in general, which puzzled me.
“You know,” he said. “The operation. The addadictomy.”
“Oh,” I said. “Is that what it’s called?”
He grinned. “That’s what I call it, anyway.”
It took me a few more seconds to get it. “Oh, fuck,” I said, laughing. “Addadictomy.”
Jake looked pleased with himself. “A little tranny humor,” he said.
I’d never heard him use that term to describe himself, so I was emboldened to press further. “Have you always felt like a gay man?”
He thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I’ve always felt male. And I’ve always wanted to be with men.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?” I asked.
Jake lobbed his yogurt can into a trash barrel like a kid shooting hoops. “I don’t feel very gay most of the time.”
It wasn’t hard to grasp the alienation of a guy who wants to chase dick without having one himself. Jake had spent most of his life feeling betrayed by his anatomy, but even now that he’d relocated to Queersville he was still too queer for the queers. He just needs a nice girl, I thought, reminding myself of my mother when she learned I was gay. But it was true. Men are hung up on visuals, as Shawna had recently observed, but women give weight to the heart and the mind when measuring attraction. If Jake identified as a butch lesbian—or even as a straight man—some woman would find reason to love him.
“There’s someone I want you to meet,” I told him.
Three weeks later, when Anna was recuperating from her stroke, that meeting finally occurred. I took Jake by St. Sebastian’s Hospital one day after work and introduced him to my former landlady. She was thrilled to have company beyond her regulars, and I could tell that she saw in Jake a potential protégé. Jake, in turn, found a sort of spiritual grandmother, someone who understood him without effort or
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